


Shawerma on a cold bench, Teppenyaki on the Upper East Side

by pleasebekidding



Category: Suits (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alaric being a teacher in a posh girls' school, Boxing, Crossover Pairings, Harvey being Harvey, M/M, Sex basically, Winner tops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaric is a teacher in a posh girls' school in Manhattan. Harvey meets him at Mendez' boxing gym on East 26th Street. It goes better than you might guess, but it's not uncomplicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shawerma on a cold bench, Teppenyaki on the Upper East Side

Six in the morning is the only time Harvey can even make it. Mendez is a good gym, close to the office, clean, and with a heady cloud of testosterone that permeates the air, makes him hungry for the day. And almost no one knows he comes here. Donna. Louis, but how he knows the things he knows only Donna might be able to guess at. 

So, six-twenty or so, and he’s warmed up on a stationary bike, and wrapping his hands in thin, protective bandages.

“You here on your own?”

Harvey gives a half smile as he looks up. Unfamiliar guy, about Harvey’s height, probably a little younger, not much. A little salt in his stubble. Broad across the shoulders. A body that makes Harvey think he’s been boxing since he was in short pants.

“Seems like a weird place to bring a date,” he jokes. But his usual sparring partner is nowhere to be seen, so while the gloves are off (ha!) he offers his hand. “Harvey,” he says.

The guy nods. “Alaric. I bet elementary school was about as much fun for you as it was for me. So?”

“Lead the way.”

The reason Harvey likes boxing is that it can’t _not_ be competitive. There’s no synchronised boxing. There’s no collaborative boxing, no cooperative boxing. There’s just rules, and even when sparring, there’s competition. People who don’t get that - people who say things like ‘hey, we’re just having fun here’ - Harvey never spars with those people twice. The other thing is there’s very little talking, with a mouthguard.

Alaric is an excellent boxer. He’ll take any advantage he can get, and his face, when Harvey looks, wears a grin that says he’s enjoying every minute. Winner?

… maybe if it wasn’t getting alarmingly close to seven o’clock, they could find out. As it is, they bump gloves and climb out of the ring, heading for the showers.

It would be, Harvey thinks, quite nice to have a regular partner who really likes to throw down. It would be a better challenge than Pete, who has definitely improved Harvey’s style and stance no end but always seems to hold a little back. He showers, washes his hair, and dresses in one of his lucky suits (3 pieces, of course, closer to a deep indigo than straight up blue), a shirt with a wider collar than he’d usually have picked, because it enhances the Windsor knot of his tie, and he has a deposition at ten with a guy who needs a little sense frightened into him before he perjures himself on the stand, something Harvey is quite sure he intends to do.

On the sidewalk, he spots his new nemesis, still grinning. Alaric. Funny name. Definitely funnier than Harvey. Alaric takes in the suit and makes a face which says he’s either impressed, or the opposite. He’s wearing a nice jacket, good slacks, well chosen for a budget.

“Well. You’re a ball-buster. Funny thing, this time of the morning, I might have guessed investment banker, but in that suit? You gotta be a lawyer.”

“And I know all the lawyer jokes, but if you want to try me,” Harvey says, shrugging. He holds his gym bag in one hand so it can’t crush the shoulder. He looks good. He knows.

Alaric shakes his head. “I only know the one about the lawyer half buried in concrete,” he says. “And I never really found it that funny.”

Harvey nods, and he should go, but he has a minute. “What about you, Ric. Can I call you Ric? You’re from Boston. Guessing you learned that in Southie, right?” He mimes what has to be Alaric’s signature uppercut.

“Yes and no. As in, call me Ric, but I grew up in Cambridge. My father was a professor at Harvard. Physics.”

They could have brushed elbows on the metro, somewhere along the line.

“What do you do, Ric?”

He laughs, looks a little embarrassed. “Teacher,” he says. “Up the street. Wealthy girls with uninterested parents.” Harvey knows the school; half his clients’ teenage daughters attend. The firm actually represents them. Annual fees are probably not much less than Alaric’s salary. Can’t be easy.

“I teach, too. Of course, my kids have already graduated Harvard by the time I get in their heads. I had a good morning. Maybe I’ll see you again,” Harvey says, with a nod, and he’s stepping into a town car and on his way to the office.

 

\--

 

Donna is petting a clutch Harvey doesn’t think he’s seen, and settling in with a latte that is probably fifty percent syrup and fifty percent cream, when he sidles in.

“Nice clutch,” he says, with a raised eyebrow.

“Thank you,” she answers, with a smile, and then more conspiratorially, as he’s walking away, “and, _thank you_.”

He stops, and turns. “I bought it, didn’t I?”

“Yyyy…..ess,” she says. “Secretary’s day. You always forget.”

“You’re welcome, then,” and he’s almost at the door. “No. Secretary’s day is in April.”

Donna is shuffling messages, and looks sheepish, or as sheepish as she gets, anyway. “You looked it up. Damn. Messages?”

Whatever, it’s a clutch, it probably cost as much as a couple of his ties. “Yes, messages.” He stands by the window for a moment, but she doesn’t start, and when he turns, her arms are crossed, and she’s doing that thing.

She is Sherlock fucking Holmes in Max Mara.

“You were boxing this morning,” she says. “Your hair’s not quite dry, and it smells like the conditioner you carry in your gym bag. Sandalwood. And you don’t have that slightly disappointed look you usually do, so you were sparring with a new partner. And, ooh. You thought he was cute.”

“I’m thirty-nine years old, Donna, the word _cute_ never enters my head.” Thirty-nine. Always thirty-nine. He’s very, very good at being thirty-nine. Been this age for a handful of years, now. 

“Of course you are. But you did, right?”

“Donna.”

“One little thing. Just tell me one little teensy weeny little –“ 

“Donna. Messages.”

“I can’t believe you’re thinking about cheating on Mike.”

“I keep telling you, he’s never gonna put out. Donna. _Messages_.”

She’s right, though. Alaric is… cute. The easy smile, lazy grace, strong limbs… maybe they’ll bump into each other again. For the next half an hour, Alaric settles in the back of Harvey’s mind, a pleasant distraction, and then he’s gone.

 

\--

 

It’s five weeks before they see each other again. The sun is down, the gym is busy, it’s around eight at night. and though Harvey is hungry for some cheap crap – cheeseburger, shawerma – he needs to burn off a little rage. Just a little. And there by a bench, doing some very hardcore stretches that make Harvey wonder what he looks like naked, is Alaric.

“You bring a date this time?” he asks.

Alaric looks up, face blank, and then smiles. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Thought I might chat up a heavy bag, but you look like better company. You got time to find out who’d actually win this time?”

Harvey nods, as he powders his hands. “I’ll be picturing a young colleague of mine who I’d like to see buried in concrete, so I think I’ll have an unfair advantage.”

Helmets, mouth guards. Creative visualization; Mike Ross and his ‘ _oh god I think I messed up_ ’ face. Gloves on, they bump fists briefly after climbing into the ring, and it’s time to go.

People who don’t understand boxing see brutality. It’s a gentleman’s game, though. How do they not get that? It’s about being stronger, faster, smarter than the other guy, bending the rules instead of breaking them; you can’t just show up and hope you win, you have to stay sharp, fit. He often thinks boxing a lot like the law, but in truth, there’s probably a thousand analogues to boxing in the real world, and the law might well be among the least noble.

Alaric’s eyes sparkle behind the face guard, and he looks like he’s smiling, even with his mouth distorted and clenched tight around moulded plastic. 

They draw eyes, and then a small crowd; no one knows Alaric, so they’re cheering either for Harvey to win, or for Harvey to get his ass served to him, and if he’s honest, it’s anyone’s match. 

The adrenaline is flowing, Alaric feints better than anyone Harvey has ever boxed before, and when Professor Ali hits the mat and taps out, laughing, Harvey isn’t even sure it’s really happened. 

The cheering and booing is about equal, too. 

Harvey reaches to pull Alaric to his feet, and Alaric is still laughing as he spits out his mouth guard and taps his glove to Harvey’s. 

“Fair and square,” he says. “Good match. I’m gonna hit the showers.”

There’s something so sportsmanlike about a cheerful loser. 

\-- 

Since he never planned to come here tonight, Harvey has nothing to wear but the day’s suit; his sole concession to the fact it’s Friday night is leaving the waistcoat and tie off, leaving a couple of buttons unbuttoned. 

He dawdles on the pavement momentarily, which is an odd sensation. He is not a dawdler. He’s enjoying the burn of his muscles, the sensation of being physically exhausted, and he doesn’t want to waste it by going home and settling down to a Scotch and his email.

Alaric pushes through the door, and laughs again, and shakes his head, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“You gotta admit it was close,” he says. “Next time.” He nods sharply, and takes a few steps backwards, eyes on Harvey, and then turns away. Heading home. It’s Friday night, maybe not home. 

“Ric,” Harvey calls, and Alaric turns. “Difference is I feel like I got hit by a bus, and you look like you’re planning a run tomorrow morning. You doing that? Right now?”

Alaric shrugs. “We’ll, I’m young and stupid.”

“Hush up, I’m thirty-nine,” Harvey says. “You busy? There’s a private club a couple of blocks away.”

“Private club? I can see it now. Leather upholstery, mahogany tabletops, and peanuts that are guaranteed urine-free. There’s a sports bar around the corner, if you feel like rubbing elbows with the great unwashed. Or... the _rest_ of the great unwashed.” 

Sports bar sounds good, as long as it’s not full of drunk associates. Harvey shrugs, and off they go. 

\--

The bar is quiet when they arrive, the after-work crowd having dispersed somewhat and the late crowd not yet out and about, still sitting in apartments getting a cheap head start on the evening’s drunkenness. It’s an okay bar, one Harvey’s walked past often and never tried out. All the standard beers on tap, a few microbrews, a good range of Scotch. They find a booth in the back and Harvey rolls his sleeves up, and calls for a couple of greasy burgers, fries and onion rings, a pitcher of beer, something he’s never heard of but that sounds reassuringly hoppy. Alaric slumps into the bench, eyes flicking to the screen. 

Baseball. It’s a rerun. 

“You root for the Yankees or the Red Sox?”

Alaric shakes his head. “Neither, really. Prefer basketball. You?”

He has no idea. “Me too, actually. I would have gone pro but they don’t take short white guys,” he jokes, and Alaric laughs. There’s only one standard by which either of them is short and that’s basketball. “Besides, being a lawyer is really time-consuming.” 

“I bet it is. Shouldn’t you be working right now?” 

Harvey raises his eyebrows. “Gave myself a night off.”

That grin. “Played in college, but we never got as far as the playoffs. Didn’t care, I just love the game. And beatin’ the shit out of my friends in a quick game of two on two, of course.” Harvey thinks of the collection of basketballs in his office. Maybe Alaric will see them some time. 

Probably not. 

Sloppy drunk is never a good aim but drunk enough for tongues to loosen and glances to get heavy, that’s another thing. Drunk enough to accidentally bump ankles under the table. Not drunk enough to reveal anything like your whole hand, but to dance that cautious dance, that requires a level of lubrication (pardon the pun) which a couple of pitchers of beer and a so-called nightcap of Lagavullin. It’s been a long time since it was okay to say ‘want to take this somewhere quieter?’ or ‘your place or mine?’

Every time Harvey sets foot outside of his apartment, he stakes his reputation on his own deportment. 

“So,” Alaric says, and he’s counting through his billfold, pulling out his half of the tab. “Should probably get out of here.”

“Right, right,” Harvey agrees, looking distastefully at the bills now settled on the sticky table. 

“Your place or mine?”

What?

“What?”

“I figure we can sit here all night while I wait for you to say something or I can make the first move. Not wrong, am I?”

No, he’s not wrong, but fuck, Harvey’s not a big fan of someone else making the move, no matter how much it makes the whole thing safer, whatever safer actually means. He hesitates, and Alaric flinches.

“Fuck,” he says. “Don’t… I’m… I should just go,” he says, peeling a couple of bills out of his wallet. “Seriously, forget this even happened. Hope we can spar again.” And he’s out of his seat, and grabbing his gym bag from the ground, and Harvey can be sort of an idiot.

He waits a moment, two, and he follows Alaric out, meeting him at the curb.

“You’re not wrong,” he says. And also, “your place.”

\--

They’re barely through the door when Alaric kicks it shut, and smashes Harvey into a wall. Hungry, needy, aggressive, and it occurs to Harvey that this is going to be interesting, a pair of clearly dominant guys trying to negotiate sex for the first time – no, for the only time. This can’t happen twice. Alaric is unbuttoning Harvey’s shirt, pressing into a very rough kiss, very thorough, biting his bottom lip so all that Harvey can really do is react.

And react he does; the second he has the upper hand he pushes Alaric against the opposite wall in the short corridor, a hand curled around the back of his neck. Alaric lets out a low murmur, head rolled to the side to expose his throat, which Harvey can’t help but bite gently.

Somehow, through give and take of the upper hand (Harvey should have sat down, he thinks, and negotiated terms; might have actually been faster. Probably not as much fun, though) they eventually make it to the bedroom, relieved of every scrap of clothing (save Alaric’s socks, which Harvey helps him with; naked down to socks is not very dignified).

“I’m exhausted already,” Harvey says, in exactly the same tone he might use to say ‘where are those briefs’ or ‘do you really call that coffee’ – file under things which are said for effect, instead of because they need to be said. Smooth. Alaric laughs.

“You wasted all your energy beatin’ me up,” he says. “After all, you’re not thirty-eight any more. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. You can just lie there and look pretty.”

He switches on the bedside lamp – better, definitely better. Alaric’s body is lean, and defined, with just enough body hair. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” Harvey says, up on his elbows, but Alaric laughs again, and without hesitation or fanfare swallows him to the root.

Harvey’s eyes roll back in his head and he stops bitching immediately, rolling his hips, enjoying the way Alaric has him pinned down.

When he opens his eyes, all he can see is Alaric’s mouth spread wide around him, long eyelashes almost brushing over his cheekbones. He makes some truly embarrassing noise in the back of his throat, and gives up.

Alaric can take whatever he wants.

It’s only a moment or two later that he can feel himself being split open on insistent fingers, and his long forgotten prostate stroked almost to maddening climax, but no further. He lets himself be rolled onto his stomach, onto his knees, and literally bites the pillow as Alaric presses past the almost untouched ring of muscle.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Alaric says. His voice sounds like ten miles of bad road, and his calloused hand (how does a teacher come to have such rough hands?) pushes against Harvey’s shoulder, holding him down. It’s been a long, long time since Harvey let himself be fucked. Not that it doesn’t feel good, but he’s squeamish about the sense of surrender that accompanies it. His body has no such qualms, pushing back against the intrusion, even letting himself be manhandled onto his side so Alaric can grip his cock, coax it back to full hardness.

He turns his head, to kiss Alaric over his shoulder, and feels Alaric’s entire body shake suddenly, and he follows not far behind, spilling over Alaric’s fingers like he hasn’t come in weeks, and has been dying for the touch.

They lie still, breathing heavily, Alaric’s face buried between Harvey’s shoulder blades until it becomes fairly urgent to deal with the aftermath; condoms aren’t exactly romantic, but they’re a damn sight more romantic than an assload of spunk, Harvey thinks distantly.

“Haven’t done that in a while,” he admits, rolling over as Alaric disappears into the bathroom for a moment.

“I figured,” he says. “What can I say, I like a challenge.”

Harvey should really leave. He doesn’t generally do the sleepover thing. And yet, he rolls over, settles his hands behind his head, and waits for Alaric to come back. Surprisingly affectionate sex, for a one night stand.

Alaric slips back between the sheets.

“You, um. Stayin’?” he asks, a little awkward.

Harvey hesitates.

“Why not?” he answers. “But I’m the big spoon.”

Alaric kisses him one last time, rolls over, and settles into the curve of Harvey’s body to sleep.

\--

It’s just over two weeks later that they run into each other again. Saturday, late afternoon, at the gym again, and Alaric looks genuinely happy to see him; no ‘why didn’t you call’ bullshit, none of that. They hit the stationary cycles to warm up, and then it’s into the ring.

Harvey’s brain is busily running a non-stop porn reel in his head, which might be why his timing is a little off, why Alaric gets in a few not-exactly-lucky punches. The catcalling from around the room is annoying, but it forces Harvey to step up his game, somewhat.

Not enough.

The third time he hits the mats, he decides it’s enough, and taps out, to a chorus of ‘yea’s and ‘boo’s, and probably a little cash being passed from hand to hand. Alaric crouches beside him as he gets up onto his elbows.

“You know what this means?” Alaric asks, under his breath, and just the closeness of him has Harvey’s sore body warming again.

“Yeah, I do. I’m topping.” This even quieter.

They shower, and they’re in a cab and heading back to Alaric’s place without another word shared.

\--

Alaric, for all he clearly enjoys dominating – in the ring, in bed, who knows what sort of teacher he is – puts out cheerfully, ankles hooked over Harvey’s shoulders, taking a thorough pounding with his eyes rolling back in his head, erection smacking against a pool of pre-come on his stomach every few moments in a way that makes Harvey sort of hungry. Before the sun goes down, they’re drowsing in the warm room, kissing purposelessly, satisfied with themselves and each other, napping for a few minutes at a time, waking when the other rolls over or goes for another kiss.

“Haven’t done that in a while,” Alaric admits, with a half grin.

“Pity, you look good on your back.” Harvey sits up. Sort of reluctant.

“You have to go?”

And does he? He thinks about it for a few moments.

“Have to shower,” he says. “But no, I don’t… have to go.”

“Towels are under the sink,” Alaric says.

\--

The night stays aimless. They order Indian food and watch re-runs of basketball games on ESPN Classics (something Harvey has never been able to convince anyone is as much fun as it is). They talk little about their lives, and that’s probably for the best; Harvey doesn’t really want to know why Alaric’s body is so heavily scarred any more than he wants to talk about how much fun it isn’t to spend all day every day trying to protect everyone he gives a shit about from the lie that is Mike Ross. They talk about better things, perfect jump shots, whether chicken tikka masala even counts as an Indian dish when it was actually invented in England. There’s some very juvenile making out on one of Alaric’s couches (Harvey can’t help but wonder if he owned it in college; it’s very… _well-used._ Bare patches, lumpy spots. Clean, but in a way that suggests it gets cleaned, rather that it has managed to stay clean. There’s probably a lethal alcoholic core in the center somewhere. But for all that, it’s probably more comfortable than the Chesterfield he has at home) and a few beers, and some Jack Daniels, which is a novelty, because Harvey doesn’t generally drink anything that cheap.

It’s not bad, though.

Sometime after midnight, he groans, and pushes Alaric off him.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Burning Sunday morning business?”

“Client. Big fish. It’s his granddaughter’s christening, and it’s not worth missing,” he says, rearranging his clothes and heading back to the bedroom to find his socks, his shoes.

Alaric is quiet on the couch, but he looks only mildly disappointed. Mostly sort of amused at a well-wasted night, Harvey thinks. Draped in an almost feline way over his ancient couch. Boyish.

He does seem young.

A kiss goodnight doesn’t really seem right. And he’d already broken the cardinal rule by spinning a one-night stand into a two night stand. So he gives a nod, and heads for the door.

Alaric follows him. “Listen. Next weekend…”

Harvey feels his skin go cold, and he turns to meet Alaric’s eyes. Might as well be a man about this.

“Maybe we could make a start with something a little less violent,” Alaric says, with that grin. It makes it damn difficult to say no. “Dinner, maybe.”

Harvey isn’t the type to flinch, but if he was, he’d flinch at this.

“You’re totally unreadable,” Alaric says, and his smile drops.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Harvey says. “I don’t really have room in my life for that sort of…”

“For dinner?”

“That’s right.” He hitches his gym bag on his shoulder. “For dinner.”

Alaric nods. “So, what is this – is it because I’m a teacher? Don’t really fit into your –”

“No, it’s not that. I’m a busy man. I work long hours. I’m in the middle of two court cases against the firm, I have clients out the wazoo, I just don’t have room for this sort of complication. We wouldn’t work. Not like that.”

He actually sees Alaric’s skeleton harden into steel, his teeth clench.

“Well at least I know that now,” he says. “I’ll see you at the gym.”

Harvey wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.

\--

“You have that look,” Donna says, falling into step alongside Harvey in the hallowed corridors of Pearson Specter on Monday morning.

“You’ll have to be more specific. It’s Monday morning, is it my ‘Monday morning’ face?”

“No,” she says. “It’s a lot more specific than that. Damn you, Harvey Specter, look at me when I’m trying to read your mind!”

“Messages?”

Donna follows him into the office, teetering on some truly magnificent shoes. “Only a handful. Oh! I have it,” she says, one hand on her hip, holding out the notes. “You got laid on the weekend. Who was it? The cute little DA in the Marc Jacobs suit from the deposition last Thursday?”

“Please,” Harvey says, taking the messages and sorting through them. He misses college. College was great. He never worked more than fifty hours a week.

“Well, you’re not grumpy enough for me to even ask if Scotty’s in town. Ooh, cute boxing guy?”

“Donna!”

He’s not in the mood for twenty questions.

“Score out of ten?”

“Donna…”

“But it was him, right? I should take up boxing.”

“Donna, last warning.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

Is he?

“Tell Mike I need to see him the second he gets in, which had better be…” he checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”

Donna decides she’s not going to get a word out of him, rolls her pretty eyes in her pretty head and marches back out to her desk.

How does she do that?

Harvey doesn’t really want to know.

\--

A few days later, Harvey heads out to the gym. He’s about to get out of the cab when he sees Alaric, about to push through the doors.

“On second thoughts,” he tells the driver, “I don’t have time.” He gives his home address, and tries not to notice that Alaric is watching as the cab pulls away.

\--

He should understand. This lifestyle – it’s not conducive to relationships. Harvey’s days are a blur, most of his nights aren’t his own. And the money thing shouldn’t be an issue, but it is. Harvey will cheerfully spend at dinner what Alaric probably spends eating out for an entire month. It’s just too difficult.

He feels a small flash of irritation, because if Alaric hadn’t asked him for dinner, they could have continued the way things were going, for a while, at least. Now he’s down a sparring partner and the potential for the occasional night of uncomplicated sex. And getting to the gym has become complicated as well. It’s all supremely irritating. Harvey is an idiot. All he needed to do was let Alaric leave that night from the sports bar and nothing would have changed.

It could be worse, he supposes. At least it ended before there were feelings of any kind involved.

A couple of weeks later, Harvey is eating a sandwich at his desk, uncharacteristic for the middle of the week, but appointments were made too close to each other for him to do a damn thing about it. One forty-five and he has an appointment at two. And the pastrami isn’t right. And this isn’t Swiss cheese. Should stick to what he knows, he thinks, and also, fire Donna, who is pushing Alaric through his office door and making a delighted face.

Alaric looks like a deer in headlights. Harvey can’t look much better.

Alaric’s eyes find the basketballs on the window sills and he stares for the three seconds it takes Harvey to thank Donna and ask her to stall his two o’clock if at all possible.

“Yes sir,” she says, staring at Alaric’s backside, and giving a thumbs up sign. She pulls the door shut behind her.

Harvey reaches across to turn off the intercom, and raises his eyebrows at Donna, through the glass. She pretends not to notice.

“You can’t just show up here –”

Alaric puts a palm out. “Harvey, no, I…”

“I have an appointment in ten minutes. I can’t talk about –”

“… I’m not here for…”

“And frankly, I think it’s a little weird showing up here at all.”

“I’m your two o’clock, and I swear to god, if you don’t shut up in three seconds I’m gonna feed you one of those basketballs.”

Donna has stopped pretending not to be smug. She has her fists up. Harvey knows her too well to think she could possibly be saying anything but ‘is that boxing guy?’

She doesn’t expect an answer. She does, however, bring the file, a moment later.

Harvey, feeling like an idiot, accepts it. “Coffee?” he asks Alaric.

Alaric shakes his head. Looking humiliated and angry. Angry suits him. “I don’t want a cup of coffee,” he says, with gritted teeth. “I want you to read my damn file.”

Donna disappears again. She looks like she’s planning to bring coffee anyway.

“Sexual assault?” Harvey looks up, shocked.

“She came to me, a month ago, offering sex to get a failing grade changed to an A. I said no, filed a report. Now she’s saying I gave her the F because she wouldn’t sleep with me. Says I –.”

“Where’s the report?”

“Gone missing.” He clenches his jaw. Things like that don’t go missing. Someone buries them. “Harvey, this girl is one of the wealthiest kids at –”

“And that’s where I’m going to have to stop you,” he says. “Because I represent her father’s business.”

“But… you represent the school. How can…”

“Can’t represent you here,” Harvey says. “I can make sure the right person does, though.”

Alaric leans forward in his chair. “How do you think it looks for me if the school’s own law firm won’t represent me in this?”

Harvey holds Alaric’s eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t matter how it looks,” he says, quietly. “And let me tell you – no worse than if someone found out you and I had a connection. Donna will get in touch. You have to leave.”

Alaric looks utterly betrayed, and completely helpless. He stands, holding onto the arm of the chair for a moment longer than he should have to. And he nods.

“Are you gonna ask me if I did it?”

“It wouldn’t matter even if I was going to represent you,” says Harvey, templing his fingers over his desk.

“It matters to me. See you, Harvey,” Alaric says, and he just goes.

\--

That Alaric would be at the gym when Harvey arrived that night was a given; and yes, he’d fully anticipated finding him beating a heavy bag completely senseless. Every muscle in his body is taut. He’s drenched in sweat, which is in no way a bad look for him. Harvey steps up behind the bag to hold it in place.

“That is not where you want to be right now,” he says.

“Picturing me? I’m sorry, Ric, you have to know my hands are tied here. Did you get onto –”

“Yeah, I did, and I’m seeing her in nine days. Nine days, Harvey,” and for emphasis, he punches the bag hard, three times, four, hard enough to almost knock Harvey unsteady. “Meanwhile, I’m suspended pending the investigation. No work, no money, no rent.”

“I can…”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll break your nose,” Alaric says, resting for a minute, leaning forward, locking his body into place by holding his legs just above the knees.

It’s a fair cop.

“Listen, you need to focus on that missing report. Or find someone who can convince the girl –”

“You’re not my lawyer.”

Harvey crosses his arms over his chest. “I thought I was your _friend_.”

“Yeah?” Alaric stands straight. “So did I. Until I saw you pull up outside of here in that cab the other day and change your mind about coming in the second you saw me. What did you think, Harvey?” His voice is very low, but in no way calm. This is good. The people who you should really be afraid of are the ones who can stay calm when they’re angry. “Did you think I was gonna hang out like a lovesick teenager and make sad eyes at you? I’m a big boy, I can handle… you know what,” he says. “Never mind. I’ve been here so long my arms and legs are numb.” He pulls off his gloves. The bandages underneath are soaked through, and his hands are shaking faintly.

“I’m hittin’ the showers,” he says, without meeting Harvey’s eyes again, instead wiping his face with a towel, and he’s gone.

\--

First thing Harvey does when he gets into work the next day is get Alaric’s appointment with his new lawyer bumped to later on that day; there’s not a person in New York who doesn’t owe him a favor or two. Second thing is to refresh his memory about the girl’s father. There is no mother, it seems. The girl probably goes home to an oversized apartment every night with a household staff and speaks to her father via email once a week; Harvey knows the type. No boundaries, no rules. No one asking what time they got in last night or why their credit card is delinquent this month. Harvey has met her father only once, and the impression was of a sleazy businessman only staying this side of the law by extreme caution; although it would be overstating things to suggest he’d been laundering money for thirty five years, there was probably an argument to be made.

(He doesn’t once ask himself if he thinks Alaric could be guilty.)

Torturing himself with these details will do Harvey no good, and he rubs his eyes, and turns to the day’s actual work, and the miserable-looking and stopped form of one Mike Ross slinking towards his office door.

It’s going to be a long day.

\--

And drinks in the lobby at the Four Seasons. Harvey orders a dirty martini, waiting for his good friend from a not-top-tier firm; she’s dressed like a siren, but honestly, Henrietta could look like a siren dressed in a burlap sack, it’s safe to say.

“I know this isn’t a social call,” she says, crossed her knees in a low slung chair, “or we’d be sitting near the window and you’d have changed your suit. So this is about the teacher? Friend of yours?”

“Nice to see you too, Henri. And acquaintance might be closer to accurate,” Harvey says, waving over a waiter. “I just wanted to make sure he’s not about to get fucked by the system, here. Rich student, relatively new teacher to the school –”

“Now, now, don’t you have a conflict of interest, here?” She leans back prettily in her chair, eyebrows settling somewhere up close to her hairline. “Isn’t that why you sent him to me? By the way, who’s paying for this? The school has _your_ firm on retainer, the way I understand it.”

“It’ll be taken care of. Don’t say anything else about it to him, let him believe it’s the school.”

“Harvey, you sound almost attached to this guy. Bit scruffy for you, I would have thought.”

“He’s a friend. We box together. Now, what’s your strategy?”

He can’t, of course, get much of anything out of her, except thinly veiled innuendo and mild sarcasm, but it still feels like progress, and he leaves the hotel feeling lighter than he has since Alaric stepped into his office.

\--

Miss Sara Kennedy-no-relation was seen by six of her classmates – not classmates she knew, but people who she no doubt had failed to notice every day for the last three and a bit years – at the Warner Center on Columbus, arguing with a shopkeeper as she tried to return a clutch at the Coach store, the day and approximate time Alaric was supposed to have hit on her for the easy A she was after. They probably wouldn’t have been able to be so specific about the date – after all, an afternoon wasted at the mall was an afternoon wasted at the mall – but there was a jazz quartet playing that particular afternoon. Every Thursday afternoon that month, actually, but this one was made memorable by someone knocking a strawberry thickshake off the balcony squarely onto the saxophonist. It didn’t take long to confirm every part of the story, down to and including the eventual successful return of the purse, onto Sara’s credit card, within moments of having run crying from Alaric’s alleged lecherous advances.

Thus revealed, the girl lost her nerve, withdrew her complaint, and was whisked off to Switzerland to finish Senior year under the more watchful eye of her father – by which Harvey assumed a stricter household staff. He didn’t hear it from Alaric. He heard from Henri, who sent him her bill (with the Harvey Specter discount of fifty percent on the top, and two hours’ billing for the drink they’d shared at the four seasons).

He paid it, and never said another word.

There were other boxing gyms he could use, and he used them. But it wasn’t quite the same.

\--

“Happy birthday,” Donna says, one morning, holding a cup of coffee that is no doubt once again half milk and half syrup, with a little coffee thrown in for color.

“It’s not my birthday,” Harvey says. “Oh wait. It’s yours. Did I get you something nice?”

Donna makes a theatrical wave at her dress – her ass looks like you could bounce a penny off it. “Marc Jacobs?”

“You’re so good at that. Tessori’s at eight, and I won’t take no for an answer.” She hands him a pile of messages and heads back to her desk.

She won’t, either. And why the hell not? A couple of drinks and Harvey will be home before ten. And he’ll probably have to sign something so he can foot the bill; but Donna is worth her weight in gold, so it’s no great hardship.

Tessori’s is a nice place, lots of dark wood and subtle lighting, and even Jessica, with her secret smile, has been persuaded to go along for a drink. She’s standing by the bar, talking to a junior partner Harvey has never been impressed with (though his billables can’t be argued with). She doesn’t appear to be gaining a lot from the caliber of the conversation, either, and in her terrifying heels, she towers a good several inches over the poor fucker; Harvey can’t help but feel bad for the guy. But not for long. He kisses Donna’s cheek, meets two friends from outside work (if she has friends outside of work, he’s not working her hard enough, is the joke he makes – Donna laughs, but apparently her friends don’t think much of her hours, because they stay stony faced).

Around a quarter past nine, just as Harvey is about to start making the rounds and doling out polite excuses, he turns in time to see Alaric lean down, and kiss Donna on the cheek, hand over a small gift. He realizes right away that he should have know she had plans this downright stupid. But it’s been months, there’s no hard feelings anymore – right?

They probably made friends. Donna does like to take in strays. She still seems to be one of only two people in the entire firm who genuinely like Louis Litt.

Alaric must feel Harvey’s eyes, because he turns, and after a moments hesitation, gives a firm nod, before gratefully accepting a glass of the Australian cabernet merlot that’s been doing the rounds. He’s wearing a better suit than his usual caliber – and he looks damn good.

He looks very, very good.

He eventually leaves Donna’s side, and crosses the small space to where Harvey is standing, still contemplating a hasty retreat.

“Nice suit,” Harvey says, and Alaric laughs, a little self-conscious.

“Very nice settlement,” he admits. “In lieu of a counter-suit I wouldn’t have bothered with anyway. But I have a job, that’s the main thing, and they’ve doubled the number of cameras in the school. How have you been?”

Harvey doesn’t usually hesitate; but Alaric, it’s been proven, tends to make him do things he doesn’t usually do.

“I’ve been fine. Busy.”

“Busy is good.”

“You got to know Donna?”

Alaric weighs up the question with his eyes. “She got to know me. Look, Harv…”

“I missed you,” Harvey says, and it comes out in a surprising rush.

“Sorry, I found a new gym. Seemed like the smart thing to do.”

Of course he did. “So did I, to tell you the truth.”

“Well.” Alaric takes a sip, and makes a move like he intends to check the time. “I really only promised to drop in. I should probably –”

“Not on my account, I hope.”

Alaric has the decency not to answer, rather than lie in response.

“Well, anyway…” he shrugs, and drains his glass. “I’ll see you.”

But he won’t, and Harvey’s not sure he’s okay with it at all.

\--

Which is the only possible reason he finds himself heading back to Mendez after work on Friday. Donna says nothing on the subject, but she gives his gym bag a meaningful look, and wishes him a pleasant evening. And sure enough when Harvey arrives, Alaric is in the back, warming up on a stationary bike, working up a sweat. He doesn’t see Harvey until he has changed into sweats, and joined him on the bicycle alongside.

His smile isn’t particularly optimistic, or anything so crass.

“Harvey,” he says, by way of greeting, without so much as slowing down. But he looks quietly pleased.

“Let’s make it a better fight this time,” Harvey says in response, standing on the pedals, beginning to find his rhythm.

“How’s that?”

“ _Winner_ tops.”

Alaric throws his head back and laughs, just one bark, but Harvey sure as shit feels better for hearing it. He’s going to get himself into trouble, and he can’t seem to care.

“You think I’m that easy to win over?” Alaric says, not losing his pace. There’s a challenging twinkle in his eye.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” already it’s getting difficult to speak; Harvey has some catching up to do.

“Only if you let me take you out to dinner next weekend,” Alaric says, and something tells Harvey it’s a deal breaker. Maybe it’s fair. Maybe friends with benefits suits guys ten years younger than them a little better.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Harvey says, “but you do it well. Ever think about law school?”

Alaric shakes his head. “They told me I couldn’t pass the asshole test on the LSATs, or I might have.”

\--

Late that night, aching, sated, and sort of abstractly pleased to be wrapped up in a pair of large and fairly hairy arms, Harvey lets himself worry about how this all might turn out. But with Alaric nuzzling lazily into his throat, fast asleep, he’s not worried all that much; it’ll work out, or it won’t, but it’s worth a try. And if _dinner out_ ends up meaning a shawerma on a cold bench, then maybe next weekend Alaric will consent to teppenyaki on the upper east side.

And maybe Donna deserves a new pair of shoes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. My brain does things sometimes. I've always written Alaric as a boxer and one night I was watching Suits and there was Harvey boxing and I just basically started salivating.


End file.
